


my house of stone, your ivy grows

by mushy_peas



Category: Ted Lasso (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-S1 Finale, canon compliant (so far), soft fluff mainly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushy_peas/pseuds/mushy_peas
Summary: After the game and the injury that ends it for him early, Roy finds himself at his lowest ebb. Keeley is there to pick him back up and make him realise that there’s more to life than football.
Relationships: Keeley Jones/Roy Kent
Comments: 12
Kudos: 60





	my house of stone, your ivy grows

**Author's Note:**

> I got hooked on Ted Lasso, blew through the whole show in record time and had to get _something_ for these two off my chest. If you enjoy it, let me know. 
> 
> I kind of just started writing and ended up with this.

Keeley doesn’t say anything. But what she doesn’t say is expressed with a gentle touch, is folded inside a hug, is pressed against the palm of his hand. 

All his life he’s had football. When everything else has been shit. Even the biggest wins are a little bit shit when you’ve got no one to share them with, the highs chased by sobering comedowns that always left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. His sullen exterior had never endeared him to anyone really, and his hard edges had only sharpened with time. Happiness seemed only to move further and further out of reach, the ephemeral rush of euphoria after each win growing less frequent all the time. 

But now he has Keeley. Who never shied away from him.

“You don’t have to… stay,” he says, gruff as ever, the words loaded with far more meaning than he’d intended. But he means it in every sense, he realises only as he watches her take it in. He means _go_ , he means _run while you still can_ , he means _don’t stick around long enough to hate the real me._

“I think I’ll stay,” is all Keeley says as she squeezes his hand. She swallows slowly before adding, her voice thick, “You haven’t seen how fit I look in a nurse’s uniform.”

He can’t help but laugh at that, the sudden and unexpected burst of it clearing out the cobwebs of emotion, relieving that tightness in his throat. She smiles nervously back at him, her eyes dancing over his face as if studying him for a test. He catches the way her relief softens the worry lines etched in her forehead. It’s a good feeling. He likes this feeling, wonders at it: the lightness that exists in making her a little happier. 

His tone softens, eyebrows rising with a wry grin, as he replies, “I hope to god we can do something about that.”

The way her mouth twists with amusement makes something twist in his heart. “I think it can be arranged,” she teases, before gently kissing his temple. 

“I’m not a very good patient,” he warns her.

She gives a curt little shrug. “I don’t know what you think I was expecting, Roy Kent, but it wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. Not from you.”

“You deserve fucking sunshine and rainbows,” he mumbles.

Keeley only scrunches her nose. “Nah, that’s all a bit cringe, isn’t it? I’d much rather be with my sad, grumpy boyfriend.”

“Might be all I am now.”

She draws him in to her, her hand affectionately sweeping over his cheek. It makes him feel fragile as glass, wrapped in the bubble wrap of her care. “You’re more than enough for me, even without the armband and the smelly boots.” She pulls on the fabric of the football shirt she’s wearing with his name printed proudly on the back as if to reiterate her point. “See, I have a theory about my grumpy boyfriend.” 

Roy draws back a little. Far enough away to get a good look at her, to notice all the concern in her eyes and the way she’s biting on her lip. “What’s that then?” he asks, nervous to hear the answer. 

“I think he’s actually secretly… soft, and good, and sweet. I think he’s the sweetest person ever, really. Just wants to seem grumpy and angry and gruff.” For just a second, she slips into her impersonation of him, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl, her voice low, and then she slips right back into herself, a gentleness to her tone as if she’s breaking bad news. “But, really, it’s only a big grumpy layer to hide the truth, to protect his heart. He tries to be cold so that he doesn’t have to feel everything.” 

“Psychologist now, are you?” 

“Jack of all trades, me,” she says, a warm, bright smile on her face that he just can’t help but fall for. (Though, the truth is, he fell for it a long time ago.)

He feels a stab in his chest more sharp than the ligament pain in his knee. “Keeley,” he rasps, as if it almost winds him to say it, his eyes closing over the word.

“Roy,” she says in turn, in that cheery way she always says it, like she just likes the way it sounds, like she’s teasing him with it, like she knows what it does to him to be under her spell. 

When he opens his eyes, it’s impossible not to say what he’s thinking: “I really fucking… love you.” 

She shies away from his gaze, attempting to hide her smile but failing entirely. He can hear it in her voice as she replies, “Of course you do.”

“Hang on. What d’you mean, ‘of course’?”

“I’m very lovable,” she says with a shrug, trying to cosy up to him even as he pulls back with defensive indignation. She’s unphased by it, though, merrily adding, “And as I said, you’re a massive softie.”

Roy groans as she kisses his cheek.

“That’s why I love you, you idiot.” She laughs as she says it, a perfect ripple of a sound that makes Roy feel like he’s floating. Or some romantic shit. “That’s why I’m gonna stay. Even when you scowl and pretend you want me to leave.”

_Love_. She loves him. That thing that always felt so impossible until she came along.

The feeling is a good, if unfamiliar, one, but its intensity makes it painful. It comes loaded with the fear of it ever going away, this small shred of joy that overwhelms him even amid the heartache of the night. Because he can’t remember loving someone like this: the way her presence soothes his dark moods, the way her touch alone comforts him profoundly, the way he misses her when she’s not around. More than that, though, he can’t remember feeling loved like this. Ever. 

But she sees him. She sees past the hard, rough exterior.

All his defences crumble when it comes to Keeley. 

Even before, when he only knew her as Jamie’s girlfriend, there was something about her that made her impossible to dislike. Impossible. Because he should’ve. For god’s sake, she was dating Jamie, of all people, the biggest prick on the team. The biggest prick in England as far as Roy was concerned. But, despite himself, he couldn’t help but like her, couldn’t help but enjoy when his snide comments made her laugh, couldn’t help but sit up a little straighter whenever she came in the locker room. 

And now she’s sitting with him in the depths of his pain, when every other part of his life seems utterly fucked, and she’s wrapping an arm around him and telling him those three little impossible words. 

It feels like a fucking miracle.

“You love me?” he finds he has to ask, to check. There should be VAR for it. At least a video replay. 

“Course I do.” She nudges him with her elbow and he pretends to wince. “Don’t act so surprised. You know I’m mad for you. I don’t get the nurse’s uniform out for just anyone.” 

He grins. Beams, really. A Keeley smile. 

“You’re smiling,” she says, as if it’s as remarkable as a lunar eclipse. 

“Yeah.”

“Has your knee stopped hurting?”

“No, it’s fucking agony.” He sighs. “But you love me.”

Keeley’s beaming back at him now. Gorgeous and bright and full of hope. 

She kisses him.

“You’re gonna be okay, Roy. I promise.” She scatters a delicate flurry of light kisses all over his face, her hand holding his chin up to keep him close. And when she’s pressed gentle affection to every last feature, she brings his lips to hers again. 

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “I am.”

He almost sounds sure of it.

+

Later, after the scan’s confirmed what he already knew and they’ve put his leg in a brace, he tries to make himself comfortable in his bed. He’d fallen asleep in the car as Keeley drove them home, so hadn’t had the opportunity to suggest her place. Not his. Not this vast, cold house that holds mostly bad memories. 

“I hate this place,” he mutters aloud bitterly without really meaning to, shifting against the pillows Keeley’s stacked behind his back so that he’s sitting upright against them.

“What?” Keeley leans out of the ensuite bathroom, a toothbrush hanging from one side of her mouth. She’s wearing only skimpy knickers and an old, faded t-shirt of his that she’d claimed the first night she’d stayed over, the bottom hem of it only just covering her modesty. It’s distracting, to say the least.

“Nothing. I… I was just thinking… I prefer your place.”

“My place?” she repeats, after disappearing briefly to spit into the sink. She reappears minus the toothbrush. “But you always take the piss out of my fluffy cushions and my tacky decorations and all the pink shit in my kitchen.”

“I like your fluffy cushions and your tacky decorations. And those pink appliances are only shit because if you get the matching set, you can’t choose the ones that actually work, so you’ve got a toaster that only toasts half a slice of bread. I mean, I’m literally eating half warm bread, half toast every fucking time.”

“No, but if you just flip it halfway then it’s perfectly even.”

“It could be perfectly even without any flipping if you just had a better toaster.” He shakes his head, refocusing on the point at hand. “It doesn’t fucking matter. Anyway. The point is…”

“You like it better at mine?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to help you redecorate your place, Roy?” she offers, sounding genuinely enthusiastic, leaning against the doorframe in a manner that makes him wish he could walk right over there and put an abrupt halt to the conversation. “Because I’m actually very good at interior design. I always thought I could go into that if the other stuff didn’t work out.”

He winces. “I don’t think that’s quite... what I meant.”

Keeley only stares at him curiously before pushing off from the doorway to perch on the other side of the bed. There’s a half-smile on her lips that’s encouraging enough for him to carry on, and then she reaches a hand out to absently rest against his good leg, her fingertips combing gently through a thatch of thick, dark hair.

“I don’t want to be…” – he takes in a deep breath – “anywhere that you aren’t, to be really fucking honest.”

“Roy,” she says with a fond laugh, “if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were asking to move in with me.”

He glares at her, but it’s merely the Roy Kent version of a soft gaze. “I think I am.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t care where we live,” he adds, with brusque honesty. He couldn’t be less attached to their surroundings if it was a showroom in the middle of IKEA – or any of the countless hotel rooms he’s stayed in across the Premier League tour of English cities. “I can rent my place out, or… sell it. Or you can bring your shit here. I don’t care, really.” 

Keeley shifts onto the bed and crawls over to kiss him delicately on the lips. There’s a smile there when she pulls away, her mouth quirking up on one side. “And here I thought I’d just do it one drawer at a time until you noticed.”

“Oh yeah?” his voice creaks. 

“That top drawer?” She glances over at the black wooden chest in the corner of the room. “I moved all your socks into the other one and filled it with my spares for when I’m here.”

“Clothes?”

“Well, underwear. Spare pants. And my toothbrush and my mascara and my night cream.” 

“Good to know you’re so prepared.”

“Always be prepared, Roy,” she teases, her breath hitting along his jawline as she lets her lips brush over his skin. “That’s one of my mottos.” 

“Oh yeah, and what are the others?” He raises an eyebrow as she bites down on her smile.

Keeley lifts a leg over his lap so that she’s straddling him, sitting low on his stomach. His hands guide up her smooth legs, curving over her hips, sliding beneath the t-shirt to soft skin that’s cool against his warm hands. She must feel it too, a low moan escaping her at his touch. 

“Umm. Children are the future. Teach them well and let them lead the way.” 

Her fingers toy with the collar of his black t-shirt, as if contemplating what’s beneath it, before she runs her flat hands over his chest, feeling the contours of muscle through thin cotton fabric.

He’s nodding, smiling still, smiling more on this miserable day than he can quite believe. “Show them all the beauty they possess inside?” he finishes for her.

She laughs out a puff of breath, nodding in time with him before she adds: “And carpe diem. You know what that means?”

“Something about fishing expenses?”

Keeley rolls her eyes as she slowly rolls her hips, before whispering against his lips, “Seize the day.” 

“That’s it,” he pretends to remember. “Robin Williams, wasn’t it?” 

“Seize.” She leans down to kiss him. A firm, quick peck of a kiss. “The.” And again. “Day.” 

“Mmm–very wise,” he replies, his hands squeezing her arse appreciatively as she crosses her wrists behind his neck, keeping him locked inside her embrace. She grinds against him just a little, drawing a growl out of him, his hands squeezing tighter in response.

“You know what I think we should do, Roy?” she asks in her most seductive voice, the low timbre of it enough to have him straining against his pants. 

“Seize the day?” he manages. Just. 

Wearing a smirk that’s so smug and self-assured he can feel himself getting harder just looking at her, Keeley reaches behind herself to brush her hand over the bulge of his boxers. “Seize. The. Day,” she repeats with that same pause between each word, her eyes cool and unblinking for a moment before it all falls away to an easy smile, like she can’t quite keep up the facade. 

Running his hand down her back, Roy pulls her in closer, kissing beneath the jut of her jaw and down the column of her throat.“When you say that, you mean...” 

“Sex, Roy.” It’s simply put, her hands carding through his hair, reiterating the message as she encourages every kiss and nip and bite.

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles, “that sounds–”

Keeley cuts him off with the kind of kiss that makes him forget the end of the sentence, and every other thought with it. Her tongue licks into his mouth, her teeth teasing over his bottom lip when she stops to catch her breath, and then she’s letting him lead. He deepens their kiss as if he’s got a point to prove, indulging some keen urge to flaunt his vitality, a passionate display that has his hands roaming to cup her boobs as she shifts to pull down his boxers. He fights the impulse to flip them, knowing he couldn’t – no matter how much he might want to, and instead makes his intentions clear by teasing his thumb over her nipple.

And it’s fucking glorious. She’s moaning into his mouth, arching against his hands, adjusting herself so that she can wrap her hand around him – and then he feels it.

A sharp flash of pain in his knee.

“Keeley, Keeley,” Roy says, flinching back, hot and flushed and embarrassed more than anything. He takes a moment to catch his breath, before looking up at her and noticing all the worry that’s swept away her smile again. She’s beautiful, still so hot that all he wants is to fuck her until she comes, until he can’t think about anything but the look on her face when she does. But he’s not capable of much: only lying there, his leg completely lame beneath her. And he’s certain it’ll feel like a failure too many for one day. “I–I’m not sure if I… you know, _can_ , tonight.”

She shifts forward, her knees digging into the mattress on either side of him now, and presses her forehead to his. “I got carried away,” she says tenderly, almost too tender; he flinches at the sympathy he can hear in it. 

“No.” He can barely find his voice, the words sounding rough and hoarse to his own ears. “I’m just… a bit fucking… broken.” 

It’s the honest truth. The bitter truth.

But the fact that he admits it at all is something. In the past, he’d always pushed away the few girlfriends that hadn’t already run at the first sign of trouble. It had felt easier that way, not expecting anything from anyone, never opening up to anyone. Easier, perhaps, but lonely too. Like Ted said to the team, being alone and sad is worse than just being sad. So, for once in his life, he chooses not to be alone. He chooses to talk. He chooses honesty. 

Keeley holds his cheek in her hand and kisses him slowly, drawing it out, drawing him in again. “We can make it work, babe,” she reassures him, her relentless optimism undeterred by his gloom. She softens as she adds, “If you want to.” 

He knows his embarrassment is written on his face; he can see it reflected in gorgeous green eyes that keep no secrets. Keeley rubs her hands over his shoulders and it makes him feel like a charity case. But then she continues, dry and casual and absolutely filthy, “Worst comes to worst, I’ll give you a BJ and you can just touch my boobs and finger me for a bit.” 

He laughs, because only Keeley can pull him up from his lowest low with a line like that, stripping off her underwear in one only-slightly awkward motion as she’d said it. And then she seems to second guess herself, whispering, “Unless… Is it your dick that’s the problem because I totally didn’t mean to pressure you or anything–”

Roy recoils, not even bothered that he sounds like a petulant child: “No! My dick’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with my dick.” 

“Okay.” Keeley peels her (technically his) t-shirt over her head, revealing herself in the most unselfconscious way possible, grinning down at him. She even flips her hair back over the line of her shoulders so that his view is entirely unimpeded. “Good.”

Roy groans. There’s nothing he can do about it, the sight enough to floor him. 

Her magnificent boobs, obviously. 

But also the coy smile.

The twinkle in her eye. 

“For the record,” he practically growls, “if I had full mobility of both legs right now, I’d absolutely fuck your brains out.”

“For the record,” she arches her back to press herself up against him and whispers, “I think it’s my turn.”

She pulls his t-shirt over his head, her hands moving to smooth over the dark, thick hair that covers his chest like an extra layer once it’s gone. He can tell she’s being careful now, every move she makes slower and more delicate than normal, but he starts to realise he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind the way she carefully asks permission with a look, or the way she moans her encouragement at his every touch as if knowing he needs it tonight, or the way she makes sure not to knock his bad leg as she shifts into position over him. It’s nice. To be taken care of. 

It’s magnificent, really.

It’s–

As Keeley sinks down, she leans forward and utters in his ear: _“Roy Kent, Roy Kent, he’s here, he’s there, he’s every-fucking-where. Roy Kent.”_

It’s fucking heaven, if he’s really honest with himself. Part of him wonders if he’s hallucinating.

He can’t help the soundless laugh that has his chest rising and falling against hers as he shakes his head, like he can’t believe his luck. She’s ridiculous and kind and fun, and she takes care of people, even the ones who don’t deserve her. And she’s here, with him, singing his stupid fucking chant like it holds up even now, even if he never plays again. 

She only stops singing it when he kisses her, grateful and breathless and completely in love with her.

“Keeley,” he pleads, like he’s heaving out one last breath, undone by the sight of her and the feeling of her. 

She clenches around him, looking down with a knowing smile as she replies, her tone full of faux innocence, “Yes, Roy?” 

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me.”

She presses a delicate peck of a kiss to his cheek, her thumb gently stroking over his stubble as she continues her movements. “You’re not that old, old man,” she teases, before biting on her lip and closing her eyes as she takes him deeper again. “And even when you are, I’ll take care of you.”

Roy rolls his eyes, but it’s really just to hide the blush in his cheeks and the strange sensation of tears he can feel building just beneath the surface. It’s been a long day. And maybe the last of his footballing career. But what he’ll remember most is that it’s the first day he’s really believed that life after football might be okay after all, might even be more than okay. 

“What?” she says, stilling over him with a curious slant of a smile on her face. It’s only now that he realises he’d been staring. 

“Nothing. I’m just… really glad you stayed.” Roy rolls his hips with a little more purpose, searching for that particular angle that he knows she likes best. 

It seems to take her by surprise before she places her hand flat on his chest to steady herself, her head tilting back, a low moan drawn out of her by his efforts before she starts to smile through it, and laugh, even. “Mm–there, there, there,” she pleads, each word higher and breathier than the last, and then she’s opening her eyes to look down at him. “No one else–uhh–can make it feel–yes!–like _this_.”

“Like what?” he teases, and then does it again, careful to avoid putting weight on his dodgy leg.

“Fuck,” she swats his chest lightly, but the look on her face sends a very different message. 

And then there’s no more thinking. Only feeling. Only fucking. Only–only– _whew._

+

After, when she’s curled against him, using his chest as her pillow, Keeley interrupts their comfortable, contented silence to poke him and say, “Hey. Of course I stayed.” 

He wants to reply, _there is no ‘of course’._ Why would there be when no one’s ever stuck things out with him before?

“You’ve got a magic penis that may or may not have a curve in it,” she points out matter-of-factly, shrugging as if she’s helpless to deny it. “And I love you. Very, very much, as it happens.”

The sound of those words, again, makes his heart squeeze inside of his chest. He sweeps his hand over her hair, stroking gently through it. “You’re pretty fucking wonderful, you know that, Keeley? Like maybe the best person. Like if I had to say a person, who was the best… you’d be… you’d be up there.”

“Best person? Nah. I reckon I’m just inside the top ten.”

Roy raises his eyebrows, a charmed, incredulous smile impossible to suppress as she shifts to look up at him. “Definitely top ten,” he concedes, yawning. “As long as we agree on that.”

She double nods before shifting back to lie down again, letting his arm wrap around her shoulders. “But you’re pretty great too, you know. Off the pitch. Just you. That’s someone pretty great. No matter what happens, _that_ Roy is my favourite.” She presses a kiss to the centre of his chest.

“Thank you,” he manages, voice more gravelly than usual over the words.

As he shifts slightly to make himself more comfortable, the movement of his leg prompts a twinge in his knee, as if he could forget. “Just as well because” – he gestures to it – “I’m pretty sure this thing’s fucked.”

“Hope it’s not too bad because I’ve already had a call from someone at the BBC and they’re interested in getting you on the next series of Strictly Come Dancing if you do decide to retire.” He’s shaking his head against the pillow as she carries on: “Oh, and what’s your singing voice like? Have you heard of The Masked Singer? Because you wouldn’t be the first ex-footballer to do it and they’d never guess it was you, would they?” 

“What I’m hearing is I’m gonna need to rehab this knee and get back on the pitch just to prevent you from turning me into a reality TV prick.” 

“Oh, shut up, you’d love it.” She twists around to face him again, lifting herself up onto her forearm. “Think how sexy you’d look doing a tango.”

“Keeley, I’m not doing a–”

“Or the slow and sexy one where they just sort of...” She demonstrates a flowing motion with one arm that reminds him more of those floppy tube men you see at car dealerships. 

“Keeley. No,” he manages to say with a straight face, before her insistence genuinely starts to get under his skin. Not that he’d admit that. 

“Yes, Roy. Think about it,” she pushes, his reply coming before she’s even finished talking.

“No. I’m not your performing monkey–”

“Well, I’m just saying you’ve got options.”

“I don’t want options,” he grumbles, even in the face of her sunny determination, but the back-and-forth settles into a rhythm, their sentences spilling over one another’s. “I don’t want to–”

“You don’t want to do a little cha cha?” She gives a little shoulder shimmy. “A quickstep? A paso doble? I think that’s the angry one.”

“I’m not dancing for money. I’m a professional athlete, not a fucking–”

Keeley bursts out laughing. “You make it so easy.”

“What?”

“To wind you up.” 

“I’m thinking of retracting my earlier statement.” 

Keeley giggles lightly, that infectious, balming sound that he can’t help but be won over by. There’s comfort, too, in how soft and warm and nice it is to have her tucked into his side, his good side. She kisses him firmly, a couple of pecks to be sure, before replying, “No, you’re not.” 

“No,” he concedes easily, kissing the top of her head. “I’m not.”

“Because you love me.”

“That, and I pretty much hate everyone else.”

Keeley rocks against him in a laugh, a single wave of amusement that he savours. Then she sighs. 

He feels her slowly sink into a half-sleep, her head growing heavier against him. Quiet and mumbled, her words detached from any logical path of thought he can follow, he hears her say, “Let’s stay here for a bit, I think.” She yawns as she continues, “At least until you can do stairs.”

“Okay.” He closes his eyes, the warmth of here, home, her lulling him to sleep at last. “Here, it is.”


End file.
